


be careful what you wish for, 'cause one day she will come (all i can i give to you, and all i am i share)

by amells (aeviternal)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dry Humping, F/M, Half-Elf Inquisitor, Smut, Thigh-Riding, like zoinks scoob we're really in it now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeviternal/pseuds/amells
Summary: A night alone in the rotunda gets to Solas and the Inquisitor.He really didn't mean for it to go so far.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Solas/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 69





	be careful what you wish for, 'cause one day she will come (all i can i give to you, and all i am i share)

**Author's Note:**

> title's from 'the call' by ruu campbell, because it's the _ultimate_ roslyn/solas song
> 
> anyway perhaps indeed this fic came about bcos [this post](https://solasan.tumblr.com/post/625924916046381056/roseategales-so-weve-known-for-a-while-that) has been living in my head rent-free for the last month. maybe. possibly. we'll never know

He does not mean for it to go so far.

Laughable, really. Does he ever mean for it to go so far? He has been stumbling bow-legged through their entire dalliance, finding his footing only barely before he is awhirl again. And yet still— still, he _does not mean for it to go so far._

It is only that they have been sat alone in the rotunda since the sun passed under the horizon, her on his chaise with _An Enchanter’s Observations_ unpeeled over her lap, he finishing up the most recent of his murals, and the veilfire looks so lovely lapping over her cheeks, her brow, her hair.

Solas is allowing himself, today, to notice these things. To revel in the questions she asks; starting first with the book she’s paging through, then progressing to his painting process, and then the history behind it. She asks such _good_ ones, you see; turns over the information he offers her almost visibly — as though it were a particularly interesting stone she were considering dashing into a brook — and then probes with quiet thoughtfulness.

“What conditions might alter the veil, then?” becomes “An elven technique? Of— _Arlathan_ _,_ or after?” becomes “But how did their concept of time alter its method?” becomes “So how have you adapted it? Or was the technique already adapted, and you’ve simply, uh— mastered it?”

And, really, how can he not kiss her for that?

Only then what began with the simple brush of his lips against hers progresses to something quite different entirely — somehow he ends up beside her on the seat, his mouth skittering up the long, graceful slope of her throat, one hand at her waist, the other tangled in her long mane of soft hair, loose today as it never is in the field. 

He shudders as her palm passes over his ear on its way to cradling his skull, his spine suddenly a burning, taut string. The gasp he presses into her skin has her returning to it, tracing from the lobe to the pointed tip with her thumb and forefinger, as calculated with her hands as with her words, and this time his gasp becomes a ragged little grunt. 

He withdraws from her just enough to sigh, her pulse fluttering against his nose, pressed to her neck, but when she does it _again—_

When she does it again, he finds himself dragging his mouth once more over her, up, up, _up_ the bared line of her throat, to the hinge of her jaw, and then higher, until he can find retribution in catching the silver rings threaded through the fleshy swell of her lobe between his teeth.

 _“Oh—_ ” Roslyn manages, and she sounds so… so _surprised_ that he pulls away.

 _You old fool,_ he thinks, taking in her wide eyes, her flushed cheeks, with concern brimming in his chest. _You go too far, as always._

Her pupils are blown wide when he meets them, the pale lilac of her irises reduced to only a thin line. And her cheeks, those are flushed quite pink; a most becoming shade on her in truth, one he would like to see more often, only _that_ particular thought is _extremely_ inappropriate at present.

“Too far?” he asks after a moment, his voice shamefully rough.

She shivers in his arms, and _oh._

“No,” Roslyn sighs, her cheeks reddening as she meets his eyes. “No. Actually— do it again?”

He shouldn’t. This is tempting fate, this is foolishness; the height of arrogance, to think that if he touches her now he will not break her later. 

But she nudges his nose with her own, surprisingly soft for how dark her eyes are, for the way her heavy breaths still brush his lips, and she is smiling at him so sweetly, and however could he turn away a woman such as this?

 _Just a taste,_ he thinks. _Just one._

Their mouths collide again, first lips then teeth then tongues, and she is so warm against him, so warm where he has been cold for too long. He swipes his tongue against hers and swallows down the soft moan she offers, diving in again for seconds, thirds.

And then he pulls away, dropping one last chaste kiss to her smiling lips before he drags his own up her elegant jaw and back to her ear.

It’s smaller than his own, more delicate, slightly less pointed; no one ever looking at them would attribute them to a full-blooded elf, but still they are beautiful.

Perhaps not quite so beautiful as the sound he draws from her when he begins to kiss them, though. A broken-off little moan, smothered before it can fully form, and he feels cheated for a moment, chasing it in its entirety by sucking his way to the point of her ear.

She _shudders_ then, pressing a breathy, idle kiss to his neck that he feels all the way to his gut.

Solas has not done this in millennia, but he remembers well enough how it felt to have teeth here, the pleasure of it, and so when he angles his against the delicate cartilage, he is not surprised by the groan he elicits.

He _is_ surprised by how much he _likes_ it.

Roslyn withdraws, and for a heartbeat he thinks that perhaps she has regained her senses, perhaps she has rediscovered true north in this entanglement they have lost themselves in, perhaps she has a better sense of the price here than he does, but no.

No, instead she nudges his shoulder slightly, pushing him back just enough that she might clamber into his lap, and this is already _so much,_ so much more than he has had in so long, the lines of her body so firm and so warm and so _real_ that he could cry, but then she loses her balance, clumsy as she so rarely is, and—

And her knees end up either side of one of his thighs, his hand splaying across her back to steady her, and when she shifts he feels the heat of her core brush his leggings. She gasps against his cheek, their noses aligned, and he cannot smother his smirk as he shifts his knee upwards _just_ slightly, just enough to feel her solidly against him again.

 _“Solas,"_ she moans, low and hoarse and _perfect,_ so perfect, and any chance he had of regaining his sanity and stopping this evaporates entirely.

 _“Vhenan,"_ he sighs back, hand following her spine down to her hip, tightening his grip just enough to encourage her to roll against his thigh.

And she does, her sigh caged between them both, her eyes slipping shut as she grinds first forward, then backward.

He drinks down her first few sounds by pressing their lips together again, but her kiss is sloppy and distracted as she finds her rhythm, pelvis stuttering over the length of his leg, her breath coming fast and hard against his mouth.

Solas pulls away just enough to watch her face, to observe the fluttering of her eyelids, the way her mouth drops open when he raises his knee to meet her, how her whole face now is going pink with her efforts.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, chuckling when her eyes open again to level him with a hazy but amused look. “So beautiful.”

And she is. Even as she rolls her eyes, laughing softly and leaning in to kiss him. Even clumsy and lazy with pleasure like this; perhaps especially so, actually, a shade of herself that he has never before seen, that the others will never know.

“Flatterer,” she murmurs, her hand snaking up over his skull from his neck.

He shivers as her nails scrape his skin, mourning for a moment the days in his youth when his hair was long and loose, hair that she might grab hold of and yank, her pleasure singing through his body until it became his own.

“Never,” he retorts, hushed and still smiling, the fingers he’s had at her hip trailing south so that he might squeeze her, bring her closer.

She laughs again, shaky and breathless, shuddering against him. And oh, if he were a man for gods, this is when he would invoke them; with the fullness of his lover’s firm backside spilling into his palm, with her low moans caught in his ears, the weight of her on his leg as she chases her own pleasure.

Roslyn arches beautifully then, like a bow pulled taut, and he lovingly begins to lave her exposed throat with kisses, sucking bruises into her skin that he hopes will last until tomorrow. 

He wants to see them then, when this is past, when the morning comes and reminds him that he cannot have her like this again. He wants to know that this happened, just the once. That he had her, that she had him. 

Just the once.

Many years ago now, he swore he would never worship another being again, but here, with Roslyn Trevelyan in his lap— oh, does he come close.

She shifts slightly on her next brush over him, her knee inching higher, and then she’s brushing against him through his leggings, and _fenedhis—_

He moans brokenly against her neck, and that has her shuddering again, his name _transformed_ in her mouth. 

“That— that was good?” she pants, lids heavy.

He nods, gasping for breath, half-mad at just this one touch, and then the two of them are rutting against each other like beasts, her leg so firm against him even as she shivers and shakes on his, and he cannot help but _wonder—_

What would it be like, if he had her in full, here, now?

How would she feel?

It would be easy, _so easy,_ to just slide off her breeches. To push her smalls to the side, to roll down his leggings. To press up into her, as he has not done with another in centuries upon centuries, to feel the slick clench of her around him, to sink home and be _held_ by her.

And he groans, because he _can’t,_ because they have already overstepped so many lines and _this,_ this last kindness he offers, this last _mercy,_ no he cannot take this from her, no matter how much he might _want to—_

Roslyn’s hand goes shaky against his skull, falling to the back of his neck to bunch his tunic up in her fist, and when he opens his eyes — _when did he close them?_ — her mouth is hanging open, her lips swollen and pink from his kisses, her lashes fluttering as her moans begin to increase in pitch and volume.

He has to swallow before he can speak. “Are you close, _ma vhenan?”_

She hums quickly, biting her lower lip, and _fenedhis,_ the thought of seeing her reach her peak, of watching her face crumple as she climaxes, is almost as good as finishing himself.

His other hand joins the one supporting her, leg inching higher to offer her more of himself, and it takes a minute, it does, but eventually she cries out so _beautifully,_ singing for him like the string of a plucked harp, her body going stiff and still in his arms as her eyes fly open and her back arches, and never, not once in all his years wandering the Fade, has he ever seen anything so _radiant._

He would paint her like this, if he could. Her brow furrowed with ecstasy, teeth bared in her open mouth, skin flushed, coming undone for _him,_ only for him.

After a moment, she goes loose against him, slumping into his shoulder with a ragged sigh.

His palm brushes up and over her spine, stroking her crown soothingly as she breathes into him, the two of them so knotted together he is hard-pressed to say where she ends and he begins.

She shivers, once, twice. Then, hoarsely: _“_ _Shit."_

Unable to stop himself, Solas laughs. Softly, at first, but then louder. “Indeed.”

“No, I— I mean it. _Shit.”_

This last, coming from Roslyn, who generally keeps her swearing to a minimum, is certainly something.

Then she pulls away, just barely, brushing her mouth to his with utmost sweetness. “Hm. Sorry. I really did mean to last— you’ve still yet to—”

And her fingers have begun to creep down his chest, and he _can’t,_ he cannot, if she gets her hands on him he is going to thoroughly lose any sense of purpose or restraint or— or anything beyond the feel of her skin against his, and this has already gone too far.

So — hating himself for it — he shakes his head, kissing her quickly and catching her hand in his before he squeezes it. 

“No, _vhenan._ You need not worry.”

Roslyn frowns, meeting his eyes. “But you—”

“Truly.” And he kisses her again, because if he allows himself _nothing_ he will lose whatever grip on his sanity he has found. “I am fine.”

And— and for a moment, he _is._

**Author's Note:**

> i uhhh am rly not sure how i feel abt how i've written solas lmao im _pretty_ sure he's totally ooc ??? but we're here and it's done now
> 
> i have a [tumblr](https://solasan.tumblr.com/) if u wanna come be hjornie over an old elven god with me shdjskd


End file.
